


i know you would make me happy

by henwens



Series: we'll never give this up [2]
Category: The Road Within (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 01:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11475498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henwens/pseuds/henwens
Summary: The three continue to work towards recovery and, further beyond that, happiness.They are almost there.





	i know you would make me happy

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't aware that this was such a comforting place to return to as far as writing goes, but i've had some notes on a sequel to "bad days come back, whatever" written out for a while and after a repeat viewing of the film i'm ready for this. 
> 
> again i do not personally struggle with the issues that these characters deal with, and although i have done a fair amount of research i apologize for any inaccurate portrayal. 
> 
> thanks for reading!

Vincent’s mind was quiet, for the most part; then the impulse would flood his being. It would be an unbearable pressure, beating like his heart until his skin pulled into a twitch, or his tongue lashed out, nicking against his teeth, his mouth curling around some embarrassing word or phrase.

The quiet, though—it was starting to stretch further lengths without that burst of pressure. Vincent had begun to feel hopeful.

He looked down at his phone as it chimed—his dad. No doubt calling to see how Vincent’s return to classes was going. He clicked his tongue—not quite a tic, but a mark of frustration—and jogged up the stairs to the apartment.

The door slid open and revealed more quiet on the other side—a burst of energy hit Vincent in the chest and his arm moved of its own volition to pound at the feeling. Still, he could manage this—he closed the door and began to focus. Coming from one of the side rooms—Alex’s room—there was typing.

So Alex was working, and Marie must still be out at work. Vincent threw his backpack at the couch and made his way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he saw the lines of carefully organized Tupperware meals—all pre-packaged, pre-planned.

Years ago he would have laughed at how his heart fluttered to see the neat containers. Now, he knew the affection was because the order helped not only him, but those he loved the most. Meal prep was sacred in their house, a time when they could come together and channel their collective energy and, sometimes, collective neuroses into something productive.

Marie had a healthy figure now, and loved to look through old cookbooks for inspiration, but she needed to control what went into her body, when, and how much. Vincent never imagined he’d be one to go to the farmer’s market every weekend, but he wasn’t about to give up the raspberry crumb cake his favorite vendor sold to him each time he went.

As for Alex, he was a blur of measuring cups and hand towels as they cooked, clearing and cleaning the counters before everything even made its way into the oven. Organizing the fridge also gave him a safe outlet when he was trying to avoid a compulsion, as his new therapist was aiming for him to do. Besides, they made his favorite meal of chicken tikka nearly every week. 

And Vincent… seeing those dishes lined up meant all of that, and the fact that his new diet had drastically assisted with alleviating his tics. He had yet to give up dairy and gluten for good (especially with a crumb cake waiting for him at the farmer’s market!) but it was only a matter of time, and progress was within his reach.

Vincent grabbed a container of applesauce from the door and made his way over to Alex’s room. He knocked lightly and waited to see if Alex would open. He wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t—Alex had started writing for a popular online media blog, as their classical music correspondent and critic. Vincent and Marie had joked that they didn’t realize such a thing still existed, but Alex had been over the moon when he’d gotten the news, and when faced with that they couldn’t say much against it.

The sound of typing didn’t waver, and Vincent decided not to disrupt him any further. Alex would come out eventually, even if Vincent had to wait until dinner to see him, and Marie.

Vincent sighed and felt the build of pressure in his forehead, crinkling his face up to knock it away. There was no avoiding it—the deadline for his poli sci paper was midnight, and he was still five-hundred words short.

When Vincent moved out of his father’s house, and moved in with Alex and Marie (although that came in stages), he had a fairly stable source of income from working as a projectionist for the small theater downtown, as well as the monetary support his father still gave him. He did not expect that, as the years went on, he was soon financially able to look at enrolling in college courses.

After that, it was just a matter of whether his tics would allow him to follow through.

It started with an online class over the summer, in communication of all things. Vincent had never thought about what he wanted to do with his life, beyond controlling his tics, but he had always known that he didn’t want to be like his father.

Until his communication class had led him to a writing course, and that had led him to political science, and suddenly Vincent got it in his head that maybe he could write speeches for politicians like his father. After all, he of all people knew the power of the right words.

Needless to say, his father had been thrilled—and Vincent was still trying to dodge his phone calls, even after a year and a half of attending classes with his tics more or less (and unfortunately, often less) under control.

Vincent had barely heard the door open when suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around his neck, and a face buried into his hair. He laughed and ran a hand down the slim arm until his hand met the hand attached to it.

“Hey, Marie,” he said. She mumbled something into his hair and he could only laugh, moving the laptop he had unpacked from his bag out of the way. She noted this and slunk over the back of the couch, narrowly missing his head with her foot. Vincent took her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips, smiling as she moved to deepen it.

“Hey, babe,” she said finally, her eyes fluttering shut.

Vincent studied her as he had studied the contents of the fridge—here, too, there was organization that would have surprised him, years ago. Marie lived for routine in a way that did not go with the woman who helped him escape from the behavioral facility so he could spread his mother’s ashes to sea. Beyond meals, she cared for her body through yoga, and had even taken up teaching classes at the local center to demonstrate her love for the activity that focused on her mind and her comfort rather than controlling her weight.

She had moved beyond surviving, and was thriving, and routine helped her get there.

Vincent loved her this way, as he had always loved her.

Marie’s eyes flicked open and she smiled at his spacey gaze. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Hey. You look good.”

She blushed a little, but Vincent saw acceptance in her eyes. He smiled; a sudden tic caught in his throat and made him cough.

It was at that moment that another door opened, and Alex filtered out of his room like a ghost. He shuffled over to where they were sitting and, latex-clad gloves bracing against the couch, he leaned over and buried his face in Vincent’s curls. Vincent laughed but did not move to push him away.

“What is it with you guys and these luscious locks?”

He felt Alex press a kiss to his head and blushed, looking away from Marie’s cunning gaze.

“Forget I asked,” he said, but he felt a sliver of regret when Alex pulled away and moved to the kitchen to wash his face.

“How’s work?” Marie called to him.

“I suppose I’ll be in business for as long as these philharmonics continue to change conductors like I change gloves. How hard is it to keep someone around who knows the difference between Brahms and Bach?”

Marie and Vincent shared a glance and a shrug, holding back their laughter. For as much as they loved Alex, sometimes he belonged to a world they could not reach.

“ _Fucking violin bitch_ ,” bubbled its way out of Vincent’s throat before he could stop it, and Alex and Marie both paused.

“You know,” Marie said. “Sometimes it’s almost poetically accurate.”

Vincent shook his head but he was laughing. Alex came around to join them on the couch, although his back didn’t quite touch the fabric of the seat and his hands wound tightly in his lap. Marie leaned against him, though, and he smiled down at her beatifically. Not for the first time that day, Vincent counted himself lucky.

His phone chimed once more from the coffee table, but he would answer it later. His laptop’s charge light winked at him, reminded him of his homework, but he would write it later. Right now, he was with the two people he loved most, and the pressure was slowly bleeding out of him, leaving behind only quiet and a growing sliver of pure happiness.


End file.
